Going Nowhere to Mean Nothing

After the 2016 EU referendum,Theresa May kept intoning “The People have Spoken” with lugubrious reverence, as if trying to portray herself as some sort of priestess delivering holy writ. In fact, from first to last, from that unsound and unseemly referendum rumble, full of highly dodgy rude-boy doings, to our present horrendous and dishonourable impasse, what Maybot has “delivered” has been a holy and unwholesome and unforgivable mess.

At first she must have found it quite exciting. She had been sitting comfortably at the Home Office, creating hostile environments for large numbers of good citizens and good neighbours, when suddenly there was uproar over at Number Ten and an untrained and untamed rottweiler by the strange and foreign name of Dacre entered her office and doffed his feathered hat and bowed extravagantly low and growled/purred at her, as follows : “Would’st thou in thy kindness and twinkly high heels be so good as to board the good ship Brexit, Captain May ?”

“Captain May !” she cried. “Oh rather !”

And she hurried up to the Brexit’s bridge. “But this is a very old ship, despite her new name,” she said, as The Brexit slipped its moorings and wavered off across the waves, narrowly missing everything in sight. “What was she called in the beginning ?”

“Ah, my lady,” the rottweiler growled/purred, unperturbed and as savage as ever. “How perceptive thou art. When this good ship was launched, she was called the Ship of Fools Thrown All Aback. But then a bunch of pirates stormed aboard and they included Flotsam Johnson and Jetsam Gove and quite a few billionaire press barons, and one or two Russians and various other odds, sods and dung beetles. And they gave her this new name. And I must inform you, my lady, in case you didn’t know, that the good ship Brexit is full of holes and not at all in your control.”

She looked surprised but doggedly determined and so he continued : “When I head off to my rich estates this Autumn, where Leveson can’t get me, among all those traditional red costumes in the chill air, with the horses arching their necks and the steam rising from the hounds’ hot and greedy mouths, you’ll be hitting the rocks, my gel.”

And the rottweiler leapt into a passing helicopter to be roared away to the Mercian border – with its bristling spears and glamorous longbows and billionaire barons from hell. “Farewell !” he cried in savage glee. “Farewell !”